I Wish
by MizJoely
Summary: A series of sherlolly fics and drabbles based on prompts starting with "I wish you would write..." Various ratings. NOW CLOSED TO PROMPTS.
1. Secret Ninjas

_A series of drabbles from tumblr prompts starting with "I Wish You Would Write". Enjoy!_

 _anonymous asked: I wish you would write a fic where Sherlock and Molly are secret ninjas._

* * *

"Whew, they almost had us that time! Good thing your acrobatics training isn't as rusty as your codebreaking skills!"

Molly shot Sherlock a poisonous glare. "Well, if SOMEONE hadn't decided that hiding in the shadows was beneath him, we wouldn't have NEEDED my codebreaking skills!"

John and Mary sighed and finished putting away the shuriken in the secret hiding place under the floorboards in John's old room. Sherlock and Molly would probably keep bickering like this all night…at least, until they finally retired to their bedroom.

Not that they'd be any quieter, of course, but the noises would be of a very different tone indeed!

Sometimes it was hard being best friends with the greatest ninjas the world had ever (not publicly) known!


	2. Vamping It Up

_Anonymous said: I wish you would write a fic where Molly and Mary are Vampires and Sherlock and John find this out. Sherlolly and Warstan of course._

 _Rated T cause, you know, vampires. Enjoy!_

* * *

It wasn't the first secret she'd kept from him, but she promised him it was the last. And he believed her, because frankly not believing her had never done him any good whatsoever.

Still, his wife was not only a former CIA assassin...she was also a vampire.

And so, it would appear, was Molly Hooper.

"How did this happen, again?"

"Government serum. An attempt to make super soldiers along the lines of Captain America. You know, from the comics?"

John knew, but he could tell by the blank expression on Sherlock's face that his friend had no idea what Mary was talking about. "Just stick with 'super soldiers' and skip the comic references," he advised her as she rocked little Sylvia in her arms. Their baby wouldn't need to ingest blood to survive the way her mother did, but she would probably end up with reflexes and strength far better than human average. Which was only to the good as far as John was concerned.

"Right," Sherlock finally said, blinking rapidly in that way he had when he was still trying to process some troublesome data. "That explains you." He spun on his heel and pointed accusingly at Molly Hooper, who was sitting quietly in the straight-backed chair in the middle of Sherlock's sitting room. "But it doesn't explain you. Unless you're going to try to convince me you were also a CIA assassin?"

She shook her head. "Nope. Just the standard 'bit by a creature of the night a few years gone and now I'm one of them' story. Which is why I'm extremely sensitive to the sun and need to feed daily, whereas Mary only needs blood once a week and she's good to go." She shrugged. "Sorry, there's really nothing more to it than that." She gave the entire room an apologetic smile.

Mary laughed. "Oh, that's rich!" she chortled as Sylvia reached up and grabbed for her mother's nose. "If the CIA knew there were actual, real vampires they'd have set up a very different sort of program, I can promise you that!" She turned serious and met Molly's worried gaze. "You're secret's safe with us, Molly, just as I know all my secrets are safe with you."

"Yeah, it's not the worst thing someone's kept from me," John grumbled, but with a smile for Mary to know he wasn't actually serious.

"Right, your secrets are safe, we all promise. You two: out." Sherlock was being his most imperious, but his tone softened as he looked at Mary and Sylvia and corrected himself. "Sorry, you THREE out. Nice to see you, thanks for stopping by and bringing all this vampire business to my attention. My specialty registrar and I have a few matters to discuss...in private, if you don't mind. And no, John, don't give me that look; I won't be Not Good. Another promise." He rolled his eyes. "God, I hate making those. But when I do...I keep them." An evil grin. "Except to Mycroft. He doesn't count."

"Sherlock," Molly said in a chastising voice, but he merely shrugged and strolled to the door, waiting expectantly while holding it open for the Watsons. John was looking at Mary with something akin to awe tinged very faintly - no, strike that; very CLEARLY - with lust as he murmured to her a question Sherlock probably wasn't supposed to be able to hear.

Molly would be proud of the way he so manfully restrained himself from telling John that no, Mary didn't mind that he found her new secret to be 'a tiny bit sexy'.

Once they were gone and door closed and firmly locked behind them, Sherlock hurried over to Molly and knelt directly in front of her seated form, resting his hands on the sides of the chair. "Sorry about that," he said hurriedly as he unwound his scarf and shrugged his Belstaff onto the floor behind him. "It was good to find out Mary's last little secret, but I'm just sorry you had to sacrifice yours at the same time."

"It's all right, Sherlock," Molly said, reaching up and smoothing her hand over his cheek. He turned his head and kissed her palm. "They were bound to find out sooner or later; they're your best friends, after all!"

She pulled Sherlock up for a kiss, her hand gliding down to finish removing his scarf. The long, pale neck that was revealed was dotted with freckles...and a very faint pair of white scars along his carotid artery. "And I'm glad they're gone," she whispered as she lowered her mouth so that her newly-erupted fangs hovered just over those two marks. "I'm famished!"

Sherlock groaned and held her close as she fed from him. John and Mary didn't need to know that he'd already been very well aware of Molly's...peculiarities. And for now, their lovely little arrangement would remain their secret.

After all, he'd promised!


	3. Seduce Me, Deduce Me

_Anonymous said: I wish you would write a fic where Sherlock tries to seduce Molly but the tables turn, (because Molly is a clever minx when she wants to be) and she ends up seducing him._

The scene was set: 221B had been transformed into as romantic a location as he could manage without utterly gutting the place. There were flowers (none of which she was allergic to), candles (unscented so as not to interfere with the natural aromas of the blooms he'd so carefully chosen), soft, warm lighting (no bulbs with a brightness above 40 watts, most having been replaced with 25 watt bulbs in yellows and pinks), a roaring fire in the fireplace, a thick comforter placed suggestively in front of it (and well past the grate, wrong sparks igniting would kill the mood)…and himself. Wearing his tightest black trousers and the aubergine button-up she most fancied.

Dinner was on the newly-cleared kitchen table, the wine had been just as carefully selected as everything else and sat next to the two glasses he'd washed himself (after nicking them from Mycroft's office). Mrs. Hudson was visiting her sister in Leeds, John and Mary were busy with their newborn daughter Annabelle, Lestrade had been told in no uncertain terms that he was not to intrude with any cases tonight (and his phone had been not only turned off but chucked into a kitchen drawer for good measure)…and Molly had been summoned.

Well, not summoned. Asked. He'd asked her, most humbly and sincerely, to join him for dinner. Now that the fauxiarty case had been resolved and his own lamentable drug habit had been (for now) wrestled into somnolence, she'd agreed that they could perhaps explore a relationship beyond the merely professional, beyond the friendship he'd nearly derailed by his reckless behavior.

A romantic relationship, although he'd not used the word. But surely she'd understood his implications, his hints, his…the sound of footsteps on the stairs alerted him to her presence and he stood nervously by the door. Taking a deep breath, he pulled it open, his smile only faltering as he took in her appearance.

She was wearing…work clothes. Beneath her coat and scarf she wore sensible black flats, outsized khakis, a cardigan layered over a colorful blouse, with her hair pulled back in a no-nonsense pony tail and very little make-up on her face. "I thought you understood this was a date?" he blurted out, immediately regretting the words. Before he could try to cover his verbal faux-pas, however, she simply entered the flat, took the door handle from his unresisting hands, and closed it firmly behind them.

Closed, and locked it.

"Yes, I know it's a date," she said as she unwound her scarf and shrugged out of her coat. She turned and hung them neatly on the hook next to his own outerwear, then toed off her shoes, revealing a pair of bright pink socks. Fuzzy socks. The kind she normally wore to bed, as his observations of her sleep patterns had revealed when he'd used her flat as a bolthole.

"Um, then why aren't you, uh, dressed more, more…" Words failed him as she turned to face him, casually unbuttoning her cardigan. The white one with cherries on it that he knew oh-so-well.

"More what, Sherlock?" she asked as she folded the cardigan, turning to place it carefully on the low coffee table. "Mmm, dinner smells divine, what did you make? Spag bol? My favorite!"

She wandered to the kitchen while he gaped at her, then found his feet and hurried to join her. Following her lead, he first removed his loafers, setting them haphazardly next to her shoes. He poured the wine, she murmured approval, they ate whilst discussing his latest case and her most recent autopsy. Not what he'd had planned at all, but quite enjoyable all the same. Although he wasn't able to shake the feeling of being on the back foot with her, he had to admit that her easy confidence was not only comfortable, but quite…seductive.

They moved to the sofa with their wine glasses after they'd done the washing up – on her insistence, both the move and the washing when he would have just let the dishes sit till the morning or whenever Mrs. Hudson returned – and he continued to puzzle over why she'd not gotten dressed up for their date. She clearly still loved him, still wanted him as much as he now realized he both loved and wanted her…so why?

"Why do you think?" she countered. He blinked; oh, he'd said that part aloud, oops. "Come on, Sherlock," she encouraged him with an impish grin. "Deduce me."

He took her in, looking at her from head to toe, remembering every detail of her appearance now and when she'd entered the flat, and the deductions flew from this mind to his mouth within minutes. "Because…you want me know that, even if we alter the nature of our relationship – which we most emphatically are doing – that you'll still be the same. You're still Molly Hooper, and you're not going to change for me. You're not out to impress me and change me, either, with the possible exception of my lamentable lapses into drug use…"

"Yeah, there's a zero tolerance for that," she interrupted him firmly, the twinkle momentarily dimmed from her brown eyes. "You feel like you're slipping, you tell me, you don't let me find out after the fact or everything ends. Just like I told you after you got back from your 'exile'." Her voice was fierce, implacable, and he swallowed before nodding his agreement.

"I tell you," he agreed, needing to verbalize his understanding. "But with that one exception, you don't expect me to change. You want me for me, and you know I want you for you, and so all this…" He rolled his eyes and waved one hand to take in all his careful (utterly unnecessary) preparations, "…all this doesn't need to be repeated."

"Nope," she said, popping the p and grinning wickedly. "To quote a movie you've probably never seen or deleted if you did see it, 'you had me at hello', Sherlock Holmes."

Then she kissed him, and he realized with a sense of purest bliss, that the seducer had been quite, quite thoroughly seduced.


	4. Like Father, Like Daughter

_thestarlightdreamer said: I wish you would write a fan fiction where Sherlock uses his deduction skills to absolutely terrify the boys that his eldest daughter (one of the twins; boy and girl-just a head canon of mine), who is just as brilliant and snarky as her father (also inherited his gorgeous black locks), yet she knows how to bide her time, like her mom, and she uses this skill to come up with the perfect way to get back at Sherlock because this time around, the guy she is dating is way perfect; he needs to stay._

 _A/N: Took some liberties with the prompt, hope you still enjoy it!_

* * *

"Mum, I swear to God and John Hamish Watson, if he does it again, I'm going to kill him. You just watch me."

Molly Hooper continued to calmly slice up vegetables, paying no mind to either her daughter's agitated pacing or her homicidal – patricidal, in this particular case – threats. "From what you've told me about Tony, luv, there won't be anything for your father to deduce. Nothing detrimental, anyway." She gave Lucy a warm smile. "Didn't you say you'd already deduced everything worth knowing about him?"

"Doesn't mean Dad won't try to find something," her daughter said darkly, reaching out to snag a freshly-sliced carrot from the cutting board. She popped it in her mouth and crunched it loudly, still brooding on her father's potentially embarrassing deductions of her newest boyfriend. "He goes out of his way to do it, you know he does," she continued once the carrot had been fully ingested. "He does it to Sam, too, at least he used to before she married Ricky."

Samantha 'Sam' Watson (now Harding) had, indeed, suffered under exactly the same sort of cock-blocking (Lucy's words, not Molly's!) scrutiny as Sherlock's own daughter. "To be fair," Molly felt constrained to point out as she dumped the vegetables into the stew pot, "he did it to all of Davey's boyfriends as well. But he gets along tolerably well with Lucas now that they've been together for six months."

"That's because Lucas is a sweetheart; nobody in their right mind could dislike him for more than five minutes, not even Dad," Lucy shot back. Which was true; Lucas was the nicest person Molly had ever met, bar none. Not a simpering softy, as Sherlock had grumblingly described him after their first meeting; no one without a backbone of solid steel could last for more than a week after full immersion in the Hooper-Holmes household. But definitely a sweetheart.

Even Sherlock had been forced to admit it…or at least, to admit he had no objections to the young man. Davey had counted that as a major victory.

The sound of heavy footsteps trudging up the stairs alerted Molly and Lucy to the imminent arrival of the _pater familias_ himself. "Don't just attack him as soon as he sets foot inside the flat," Molly admonished her daughter without turning around. "Give him some time to settle in first."

She didn't need to hear Lucy's disdainful snort to know just how well _that_ bit of advice had been received.

Sure enough, Lucy immediately stormed out of the kitchen and into the sitting room. Molly sighed and shook her head; father and daughter were just too much alike for their own good. If they didn't love each so much, they would probably have killed one another long before the twins made it to their 20th birthday. Which, come to think of it, was still two weeks in the future, giving them plenty of time to rectify that situation.

With another sigh, Molly covered the stew pot, wiped her hands on the towel, and headed for the sitting room in case either a referee or medic was needed.

She was greeted by a familiar sight: Lucy seated cross-legged on the sofa, Sherlock plopped into his comfortable leather armchair, each with their hands in a prayer pose, fingertips resting on identical bottom lips, eyes locked on one another.

At least they weren't shouting. Yet.

"He's perfect, Dad." Lucy was the first to break the silence, always the more impatient of the two.

"Define 'perfect'," her father shot back, raising one eyebrow skeptically, a move calculated to infuriate Lucy and thus divert her into an emotional outburst.

Miraculously, she ignored the slight-but-provocative movement and focused on his words instead. "Tony is intelligent, taller than me by a good fifteen centimeters, captain of his rugby team and a chemistry major. Furthermore, he's never done drugs, gotten a permanent tattoo, or got so drunk he peed in a wardrobe."

"Chemistry major," Sherlock repeated musingly, ignoring the jibes about his own less-than-salacious past (although how Lucy had discovered the existence of his tattoo was a question Molly was keen to discover). He'd winced at the 'rugby captain' portion of her description, but clearly something about the fact that the new boyfriend shared his educational background disturbed him; Molly recognized that tone of voice. She stepped a bit further into the room to offer Lucy silent support, but was pleased to see it might not be necessary this time.

"Never done drugs," Lucy reminded him. "No 'freelance chemist' in his job description. And you know I'd know if he was lying about it." After learning how close Sherlock had come to losing his life because of drugs before they'd been born, both of his children had developed a zero-tolerance policy when it came to such things, even the legal kind. The only exception was their beloved Nana Hudson, who at just past 90 still indulged in her 'herbal soothers', as she persisted in calling them, even though marijuana had been legalized when the twins were in their early teens.

"Rugby?" He raised his eyebrow again, and this time Lucy's twitched in annoyance.

"He's very fit," was all she said.

"Chemistry." Sherlock frowned as he circled back to what would appear to be the major sticking point.

"With excellent marks," Lucy said. She'd dropped her hands to her lap, a sure sign that she was nervous but trying not to show it. "He's actually a bit brilliant. Might even be smarter than you in that particular area."

The frown deepened into a scowl. "I'll be the judge of that," her father said tartly. "Bring him round for dinner tomorrow. If he can make it through an entire meal with just you, me and your mother…"

Molly cleared her throat. Loudly. Gave her husband a warning look.

He sighed. "Fine, bring him round for dinner so your mother and I can meet him," he corrected himself grudgingly. "But if I find he's managed to fool you about even a single aspect of his personality – I assume he's _nice_?" he asked with a definite sneer.

Lucy's smile, so like her father's at his most delighted, was positively scintillating. "Oh, I never said he was _nice_ , Dad. He's impatient and socially awkward and doesn't have a lot of friends. The first time we met he made a rude comment about my height. Then I made a rude comment back about his atrocious clothing style, we got into it a bit, and that's when I knew. I asked him out for coffee first thing, only he thought I was taking his coffee order – to be fair," she added without taking a breath, "I was working my shift at the café, so I can see where the confusion set in. But I soon set him straight, and now…I know he's the one." The soft, wistful smile she wore morphed into a scowl as she focused on her father again. "So go easy on him tomorrow night, or else."

Both eyebrows raised at that little threat. "Or else what?"

"Or else you won't be invited to the wedding," Lucy declared, unfurling her legs and jumping to her feet. She grinned and practically danced over to her father's chair, dropping a kiss on his forehead before heading for the front door. "I'll be back for dinner, Mum," she called over her shoulder. "Gotta go meet up with Sam, laters!"

Sherlock stared at her retreating form, then looked over at his wife. "What just happened?"

Molly gave him a fond smile as she walked over and perched on the arm of his chair. His arm slipped around her waist as she leaned down and pressed a kiss to his forehead. "Your daughter just met her Sherlock Holmes, dear. So unless you can deduce that he's either an axe murderer or an undercover member of the press tomorrow, I'd advise you to keep your thoughts on him to yourself till after the two of them have left. Then you can rant about him to me to your heart's content."

"I won't like him," Sherlock grumbled. "Especially if he's anything like me, which I resent your implications, by the way. Lucy deserves someone much better than anyone like me."

Before Molly could make her usual objections to him feeling he wasn't good enough for her, he pulled her down into his lap and kissed her. She giggled and kissed him back, twining her arms around his neck. "You don't have to like him, Sherlock. You just have to be civil. After all, just because Lucy thinks he's 'the one' right now doesn't mean she won't change her mind!"

Two years later saw Sherlock Holmes walking Lucy down the aisle, a nervously smiling Tony Haversham waiting at the altar for her. He'd weathered that initial interrogation, been found not exactly perfect but hardly imperfect enough to warrant being given the boot, and had proven himself more than worthy of becoming her husband.

Most importantly Lucy loved him, and for that, any number of (boringly minor) sins could be – and had been – forgiven.


	5. Duet

_Cliffhanging on said: Hi. Just a reading fan. I don't have a tumblr account so I thought that I would try this instead. Here goes: I wish you would write a Sherlock/Lindsey Stirling violin duet/dance-off._

 _A/N: I admit I had to look up who Lindsey Stirling was before attempting this prompt. It's probably not exactly what you had in mind, but I hope you like it anyway. Rated a very light T._

 _Thanks everyone for the I wish prompts and for reading and reviewing!_

* * *

It was all because of a case, of course, otherwise Sherlock Holmes and Lindsey Stirling would likely never have crossed paths. But he'd been called in to investigate her almost-kidnapping and mourned the destruction of her second-best violin (which had been smashed over the head of the would-be kidnapper) and over that bond (not to mention the successful capture of the banged-up would-be kidnapper) the offer had been made and accepted.

Sherlock Holmes was going to play the violin on-stage with Lindsey at her concert in a week's time.

Even though most of the people he invited had never heard of the performer, they were certainly enthusiastic about seeing him on stage, a setting John claimed was perfect for Sherlock since he was such a drama queen. Even his most unamused glower couldn't stop John and Mary from chortling over that quip. Which wasn't nearly as funny as they seemed to think it was. At least Molly had not only congratulated him (for solving the case so quickly AND for getting invited to perform with the talented artist) but had actually known who Lindsey was.

"You'll be amazing, Sherlock, I know you will," she said as she fussed over his tuxedo backstage on the night in question. "Don't be nervous – not that you're ever nervous," she added with a bit of a nervous laugh of her own. "This is just…it's so amazing, and thank you so much for getting me backstage!"

"Well, you did say you loved her music and had never seen her live," Sherlock reminded her as he dashed her hands away from his bowtie. Not that he minded being fussed over, but Molly was about to undo all his hard work in getting the tie exactly the way he wanted it. "I just thought you'd prefer a closer view and a chance to meet her before everyone else gets here for the after party Mycroft's arranged."

Molly's smile was utterly radiant. "Yeah, I do, thank you again!"

"Oh, and this is for you," Sherlock said with feigned nonchalance as he pulled a sheaf of papers from under his violin case.

Molly gave him an inquisitive glance, but he just handed her the papers, grinning in anticipation as she looked them over. He wasn't disappointed; with a gasp and a squeak, Molly stared up at him open-mouthed for a long pair of moments before she could finally speak again. "This is…this is her hand-written notes for 'Beyond the Veil' from her _Shatter Me_ album! Autographed to me! Sherlock, how?"

He made a modest gesture of dismissal. "I asked her for something a long-time fan like yourself would enjoy."

Molly stared at him for a few more seconds, then suddenly lunged forward and held him in a tight hug, pressing fervent kisses on his cheeks. "Thank you, thank you, thank you!" she said between kisses, her brown eyes shining. "This is the nicest thing…you have no idea…"

Somehow, without conscious intent, Sherlock found himself holding her close and turning his head so that the next kiss landed square on his lips. Molly gasped and started to pull back, but he just held her tighter. "Sherlock, what are you doing?" she asked quietly.

"Keeping you close so you'll kiss me again," he said frankly. "I quite enjoyed it even if it was by accident." He gave her a hopeful smile. "Shall we see what it's like when we do it on purpose?"

Five minutes later when the runner assigned to Sherlock knocked on the door, he received no answer; pushing it open, he grinned at the sight of the guest artist snogging the hell out of a woman he assumed was his girlfriend. "Mr. Holmes, it's time," he said loudly, still grinning.

Sherlock started to wave him away, but Molly wiggled free of his arms with a shy smile. "Time to go onstage," she said, wiping her thumb over his lips to remove the smudge of lipstick she'd left behind. "We can continue this later. If you want."

"Of course I want," he said in reply to her unspoken question. He glanced at his reflection in the dressing room mirror, ran his hands over his curls to smooth them, and gave her a smile that promised all manner of sin. "After you've had a chance to fawn over Miss Stirling at the after party, we'll head to Baker Street for a private celebration of our own. If you want."

"Oh, you damn well know I 'want', smart-arse," she replied, unable to stop smiling. "Now go show off those incredibly talented fingers of yours – I meant on the violin!" she added with a blush and a quick glance at the very amused-looking teenager still loitering by the door.

Sherlock's rich chuckle accompanied them the entire way to the stage, and his words warmed her heart throughout the entire performance.


	6. The Cure For Hiccups

_anonymous on tumblr asked: I wish you would write Sherlock curing Molly's hiccups with the best method- orgasms! ;)_

 _With a prompt like that, do I really have to say it? *Sigh* Fine. M Rated. Totally PWP and rude, crude and socially unacceptable. Oh, and somehow Sherlock seems to have developed a fetish for being bitten, so there's a teensy bit of bloodplay. Whoops!_

* * *

She stared at him. "You're (hic) kidding, right?"

He shook his head. "Nope," he said, popping the p in a totally obnoxious manner. "It's been scientifically tested. Not by me, of course, which means the research methods might be faulty, but if you're up for it, I'm more than happy to help you with your little problem!"

Molly thought about it for about a tenth of a second before nodding; if Sherlock was bluffing, she was going to call that bluff right here, right now. "O(hic)kay," she said, jumping up onto the counter she'd been leaning against. "Show me what you got, curlylocks!"

He scowled and folded his arms across his chest. "Not if you're not going to take this seriously, Molly!"

She opened her legs in a deliberately lewd motion, although the effect was probably ruined by the fact that she was wearing a pair of her baggiest khakis. "What (hic), not wil(hic)ling to put your (hic) money where (hic) your mouth (hic) is? Shame." She gave a mock sigh of dismay that turned to a gasp of startlement when he unfolded his arms and crowded against her. "Sh-Sherlock?"

"I am more than happy to put my money where my mouth is," he rumbled. Keeping his eyes fixed on hers, he deliberately allowed his Belstaff to drop to the floor behind him. Molly watched, mesmerized, as his expensive designer jacket followed suit. Then he undid the buttons on his cuffs and slowly, deliberately rolled his sleeps up to his elbows. She gulped as he undid the top three buttons of his aubergine dress shirt. And when he reached forward and just as deliberately reached for the button and zip to her khakis, she couldn't stifle a moan (only slightly interrupted by the tiniest of hiccups).

Her eyes darted toward the door; Sherlock gave her a dark, sinful smile and said, "Locked it already. Didn't want to be interrupted by any idiots today."

Molly just nodded, any words she might have been able to form drying up in her throat when, with another one of those wicked grins, Sherlock dropped to his knees in front of her. "Take them off, Molly," he said in a low, seductive voice.

With another dumb nod, she squirmed out of her trousers, hesitating only a second before removing her knickers along with them. Sherlock had already taken off her ballet flats, and when he told her to undo her top and bra, she obeyed that command just as quickly as her shaking fingers could manage.

As soon as her trousers slid off her feet and onto the floor, he pounced. Pulling her bare legs over his shoulders, Sherlock leaned in and licked a slow, hot stripe from the edge of her ass all the way up her pussy with the flat of his tongue. Molly squeaked out an "OH" as she watched him, his eyes shining as they focused on hers. She could feel a hot flush sheeting over her body as he continued to lick her, slow and steady, alternating soft caresses with hard flicks until she couldn't stop the squeals of pleasure from pouring from her throat.

"Oh, God, yes, Sherlock!" she cried, reaching down and grabbing a handful of his luscious curls in her fingers. "Please, harder, ahh, harder!"

She continued to beg and babble as he flicked his tongue over her clit, then moved it back down to her soaking wet opening. When he darted his tongue inside she nearly screamed at the filthy pleasure of it all; being tongue-fucked by Sherlock on the counter in the path lab, like something out of her wildiest, porniest dreams.

Just as she thought she couldn't possibly enjoy herself any more, she felt Sherlock's long, elegant fingers, wet with her juices, sliding over her ass. He pulled his mouth away just long enough to smile darkly at her and ask, "Ever thought about me fucking you in the ass, Molly?"

"Yesss" she moaned. "Ahh, you h-have no (hic) idea what sort of f-fantasies I've h-had about you."

"Well then, let's see how many of them come true today, shall we?" Then he buried his head back between her legs, slipping one juiced up digit into her ass while sucking hard on her clit. Molly threw her head back, her throat aching with the need to scream as she tipped over the edge, bucking her hips and grinding her pussy into his face while she came. He lapped greedily at her, his finger still pushing in and out of her as she moaned and squirmed, finally tugging hard at his hair and begging him to stop.

Sherlock sat back on his heels, his face wet and shiny with her juices, a smug smile on his lips as he pulled his hands away from her. Molly's legs slipped off his shoulders and she stared down at him, wide-eyed - and hiccup free. "Oh my God, it worked!"

"Of course it did. Sherlock stood up, and Molly's eyes tracked downward, widening in appreciation at the size of the bulge straining against his trousers. "Now, if it's not too much trouble, Doctor Hooper, I seem to have developed a bit of a condition of my own. Do you suppose you could help me with it?" He gestured toward his groin, and Molly bit her lip, once again side-eyeing the door. Locked or not, they'd been in there an awfully long time without interruption; what if one of the other pathologists on staff needed to use the facilities?

Catching her glance, Sherlock waved dismissively. "I've sent a text round to your bothersome coworkers, telling them that we're running some highly sensitive experiments in here and need to be undisturbed for the rest of the afternoon." Eyes glittering with pure lust, he began unbuttoning his trousers. "And if you don't mind, I'd really like to get to the second part of the experiment and see how long it takes to make you come while I'm fucking you."

He dropped his trousers, and Molly saw that he hadn't been wearing any pants beneath the bespoke gray slacks - and that the promising bulge those slacks had been covering was just as mouthwatering a sight as she'd hoped it would be. Sherlock gave her only a few seconds to appreciate the sight of his heavy red cock before fisting it, sliding his hand over it from the slick red head to the heavy balls hanging below and back again, his eyes never leaving hers.

With his free hand he hauled her to the edge of the counter, standing between her dangling legs. She was panting with want, reaching out eagerly to help guide him inside her. "Patience," he counseled, although the word came as a deep growl. He leaned forward and kissed her, tugging at the elastic holding her hair away from her face. Their tongues tangled eagerly, Molly tasting herself on his lips and not even caring. Both hands had moved to his shoulders, fingernails digging in as he teased her opening with the head of his cock. When he palmed her breast she dropped her head back on her shoulders, letting out a guttural moan and bucking her hips, wordlessly begging for his cock.

"Hmm, I dunno," he said, feigning thoughtfulness as he continued to tease her, gliding the head of his shaft up to her clit. "I think your hiccups are cured already, maybe I should let you get back to work after all."

Molly pulled his head down and kissed him, hard, then turned his head so her lips were grazing his ear. "Hic," she said, breathing the syllable out slowly. "Up," she added, popping the p with a wet smack before sucking his earlobe between her teeth.

"Well, when you put it that way," he said hoarsely, finally - finally! - pushing his full girth inside her. Molly groaned and kissed her way down his neck, sucking hard at his pulse point as she felt the delicious burn and stretch of being completely filled by his thick cock. She wrapped her legs around his hips and he pulled back slightly, snaking one arm around her waist and holding firmly to her hip with the other hand.

He snapped his hips forward and Molly gave a soft cry against the sweat-dampened skin of his throat. She worked her teeth into the fleshy part just above his collarbone, and he groaned out her name. "Fuck, Molly, that feels incredible, don't stop."

"I won't if you don't," she mumbled, moving one hand up to tug at his hair, digging her fingernails into his shoulder with the other.

"Wouldn't dream of it," he reassured her, moving his hips in a punishing rhythm, both hands sliding down to cup her arse, squeezing and tugging until he'd tilted her to what felt like absolutely the most perfect fucking position she'd ever experienced. The spot she'd heard so much about but whose existence she'd questioned since no other partner had ever managed to find it - Sherlock seemed to home in on it without even trying, and she bit down even harder in an attempt to stop herself from screaming out his name

"Fuck, yes, yes, Jesus Molly!" he cried out as she tasted blood. Oh God, what had she done? Whatever it was, Sherlock clearly enjoyed it; when she made as if to move her head away he stopped his frantic movements in order to glare down at her. "Don't you fucking dare!" he snarled, digging his fingers harder into her ass cheeks. "Bite me as hard as you need to, I want to feel your teeth in my throat when I come!"

That did it; with a hoarse cry Molly came, her pussy pulsing around his cock as he began moving again, increasing his already brutal pace. All she could do was hold on with teeth and fingers and legs, helpless against the rising tide of passion so clear in his face. Teeth clenched, eyes squeezed shut, he chased his completion; when Molly bit down on the opposite side of his throat he gasped and cried out her name again. She could feel his cock pulsing inside her the heated flow of his cum filling her, his pleasure nearly bringing her to a third orgasm.

As soon as they'd recovered enough to disentangle themselves, Molly fussed over the bloody bite marks she'd given him. "You can give them some tender loving care after we get back to Baker Street," Sherlock said as he helped her down off the counter.

"Baker Street?" she echoed uncertainly. Surely this was just a one-off…?

Apparently not. "Baker Street," he said firmly. "I still have this…" he traced a hand over her smaller opening… "to explore. I'm positive I'll be able to bring you off that way as well. And of course, there are so many other positions to try." He kissed her, holding her close, a softer kiss than the desperate, passionate ones they'd shared so far today. "Actually, Molly, I'm quite looking forward to a lifetime of finding ways to make you come, if you're game."

"Unghgh," she said, or something along those lines. His eyes crinkled as he smirked at her. "I mean, uh, yes, that sounds lovely, something I could definitely get used to."

"Good." He kissed her eagerly, hands tangled in her hair and body pressed against hers.

As Molly returned the kiss just as eagerly, all she could think was that she couldn't _wait t_ o get the hiccups again!


	7. Unsuitable?

_Ohmyolicity on tumblr posted this Sherlolly prompt: One of Mycroft's minion needs a "wife" for a case and find in Molly the perfect partner. Jealous!lock all the way (because I'm in a fucking mood for a jealous!lock)!_

 _Rated K+ - honestly, the prompt is the only part of the story above K! Also it seemed to fit the "I wish you would write..." theme so that's why it's here and not a sherlollipop. Enjoy, and thank you as always for your wonderful reviews!_

* * *

Sherlock stormed into Mycroft's office, his expression black as thunder. "She's entirely unsuited for fieldwork, what on earth possessed you to ask her to do such a dangerous job?"

"And a good morning to you, too, brother dear," Mycroft replied calmly, not even bothering to look up from the report he was scanning. "I take it Miss Hooper has informed you of her acceptance of her temporary reassignment?"

"It's _Doctor_ Hooper, and yes, Molly told me when I stopped by St. Barts to check up on - "

"Her?" Mycroft quipped, finally glancing up at his younger brother.

"An experiment," Sherlock corrected him through gritted teeth. "I went to check up on an _experiment_. At which point she informed me that you'd essentially strong-armed her into agreeing to this ridiculous farce - really, Mycroft? A fake wife?" he sneered. "Such a trite, overdone, cliche, no one will believe it. Especially since Molly's not trained in espionage, and whatever idiot you've got pretending to be her husband is sure to…"

"Oh, does that mean you won't accept the assignment, then?"

Sherlock paused mid-diatribe, eyes darting around as he absorbed all the possible meanings of his brothers words. "So," he finally said, speaking slowly, "the 'minion' who needs a fake wife for the case is…"

"You," Mycroft replied, finally giving up his pretence at reading and leaning back in his cushy chair, folding his hands over his waist and giving Sherlock a complacent smile. "Again, I must ask, if you feel this is such a _trite_ , _overdone_ , _cliche_ ; if Miss - pardon me, _Doctor_ \- Hooper is unsuitable for such undercover work, then does that mean I should find someone else to take on the role of husband and wife? In Paris? For the next, mmm, three months?"

Sherlock's eyes once again darted around the room, this time as he considered all the possibilities that had suddenly opened up for him. "Hmm, on second thought, perhaps I was a bit hasty in my conclusions," he finally said, voice and expression much calmer than they had been. In fact, if pressed, Mycroft would have to say there was a certain glint of anticipation in his younger brother's eyes when they met his again. "Send me the pertinent details, I'll brief Molly - I presume your PA will take her shopping for a suitable wardrobe?"

"But of course," Mycroft replied, bowing his head graciously - and thereby hiding the satisfied glint in his own eyes. Without looking back up he slid the report off the surface of the desk and pretended to start reading it again.

He listened as his brother spun on his heel and made his rapid way out of the office, slamming the door behind him, then finally allowed his grin to broaden. Less than a minute later he heard a soft knock at the door, followed immediately by the door opening to reveal his PA, Anthea. She entered, closed the door behind her and made her way over to his desk.

Mycroft laid the report down and smiled as Anthea reached his side, leaning down to give him a chaste peck on the cheek. It was the most PDA the two of them allowed themselves at work, even in private.

"So," she said, perching herself on the corner of his desk and studying her nails, "it worked, then?"

"It worked," Mycroft agreed. "Exactly as you said it would. Have I mentioned lately how much you deserve a raise in pay, my dear?"

"Mmm, I think I'll just settle for the intangible benefits I get from sleeping with you," was her cheeky response. "If everything goes as we've predicted it will, Sherlock and Molly's fake marriage will be a real one by the end of the 'assignment'." She made air quotes and waggled her eyebrows suggestively.

"I'll have you know it's as real an assignment as any I've ever concocted," Mycroft replied, feigning indignation before letting out a gusty sigh. "And if everything happens on schedule, it won't be long before Mummy finally gets the first of those grandchildren she's been hinting about."

"Oh yes!" Anthea sighed happily. "It'll be so nice to get the pressure off of us!" Her smile morphed into a devilish smirk as she added, "I told you she'd figure out we were together long before your brother!"


	8. Soulmark

_anonymous asked: I wish you would write a fic where: Sherlock gets his ass kicked by a young, recently post graduated Molly Hooper because he snuck up on her mid autopsy, demanded several things and scared her so badly she used the self-defense moves that Mary had made her use. Bonus points if it's a Soulmark AU where your skin gets some sort of mark (be it name, hand print, design, etc) at the place where your soulmate first touches you. (or. well. Punches.) Bonus BONUS points if Mycroft cackles._

 _A/N: This will be an AU just so I can get everything in there that was requested, which I can't do if I try to stay canon (for instance, Molly and Sherlock have already touched via kisses and slaps on the show). Rated T for some Bad Language. Enjoy!_

* * *

He should have known better. He really should. But he never could resist a dramatic entrance and an even more dramatic introduction of himself to someone new, and Molly Hooper was very new to Barts. She'd only recently graduated and come on staff for her residency, he knew that much from snooping through her files in the hospital computers, just as he knew she'd graduated at the top of her class. From observing her as part of a large group during her practicals he knew she was more than competent at performing autopsies; from watching her blush and stutter as she clumsily tried to flirt with one of the young, single doctors at a hospital reception they both attended (he in disguise), he deduced she'd be pliable and easily intimidated.

As he stared up at her from his current resting place on the cold tile floor of the morgue, his jaw aching from the punch she'd landed and his right instep and knee feeling as if they might never be able to support him again from the impact of her trainer-shod foot, all he could bring himself to say was, "Whoever taught you did an excellent job. My kudos."

"It was my friend Mary. Her father was Special Forces," Molly said, staring at him as she rubbed her obviously sore right hand with her left. She started to say something else, then gave a startled exclamation, her eyes going very wide as she trained her gaze on the spot on his jaw that currently ached.

Ached, and now…burned? He gave an exclamation of his own and automatically rubbed at the spot, which burned and stung as if…He felt his eyes widen just as hers had and met her gaze before slowly rising to his feet. "Let me see your hand," he said. Not demanded, as he usually did, but simply stated the request.

She bit her lip, glanced down at her hands, then slowly pulled the left one away. Sure enough, there on her knuckles, was the same light purple discoloration that surely now marked his jaw. Not a bruise, although one was likely to form there eventually from the force of the blow she'd landed when he'd (deliberately and, in hindsight, very very foolishly) snuck up on her to demand any unneeded organs from the corpse she'd been about to autopsy.

"Soulmark," he said hoarsely. He'd never ever expected such a thing to decorate his own body, nor for it to be in a place that could never be completely covered up. Somewhere in the back of his head he could hear his brother Mycroft cackling with glee. Much the way he no-doubt would the second he actually saw his younger brother again. No, his soulmark was there for everyone to see, to proclaim to the world that Sherlock Holmes had met his soulmate.

And, he thought with a slow, contented smile, his match. He stuck out a hand. "Sherlock Holmes. I apologize for being such an ass, Molly. However, I must say it's refreshing to be so incredibly wrong in my deductions about a person."

"I figured out who you were after I'd already…it's instinct," she rushed to say, stepping forward and accepting his hand, shaking it firmly. "You shouldn't sneak up on someone like that."

"Good advice," he replied, not releasing his grip, enjoying the slow, spreading warmth tingling its way from where their hands were clasped and up his arm. "So. If I haven't completely destroyed any chance we might have of actually making something of this new connection between us…coffee?"

"Coffee," she agreed with a shy smile, ducking her head and nipping at her lower lip in what he automatically recognized as a nervous habit. One he could definitely get used to.

They were still staring at one another, still clasping hands, when the door banged open and his friend and flatmate John Watson barged in. "Jesus, Sherlock, you're taking your bloody…time…Oh for fuck's sake, are you _kidding_ me?" he demanded, clearly outraged at the sight of the soulmark on Sherlock's face. He threw his hands up in the air. "I don't believe it! What kind of a fucking world are we living in where you find your soulmate before I do?"

"A kind that had become much, much more interesting," Sherlock murmured, returning his attention to Molly. Who blushed quite becomingly. "We were just off to get coffee, John. I'll see you later."

"Or you could join us," Molly said, and Sherlock frowned at what he presumed was an instance of tedious good manners getting in the way of what he knew she really wanted: time alone with him. Just as he wanted the same thing. "I'm supposed to meet my friend Mary – you know, the one who taught me self-defense," she interrupted herself to explain to Sherlock. "She's not dating anyone and she hasn't found her soulmate either, so…who knows?" She gave a half-shrug and an awkward laugh. "Stranger things have happened, right?"

"Indeed," Sherlock replied with a small smile. This could work out well after all, even if the chances were so slim as to be almost non-existent that this friend of Molly's would end up being John's soulmate, at least the two might hit it off and go get coffee on their own.

It would take him exactly two years to own up to the fact that he'd been spectacularly wrong twice in the same day. And he did so only at Molly's prodding, at the reception for their double wedding with John and Mary Watson.


	9. Stranded

_anonymous asked: I wish you would write a fic where Molly and Sherlock get stranded on a deserted island and must survive together until help arrives. They drive each other crazy at first but eventually grow close and whoops look at that, they're in love now._

* * *

 **Stranded (Rated a very light T, tops)**

When the plane went down, Molly Hooper was fully prepared to die. She was so prepared that she turned to Sherlock, sitting next to her, and told him she loved him, that she'd always loved him, had never stopped loving him, and never would. Then she'd kissed him, holding tightly to his face, eyes screwed shut, heart pounding with terror.

The problem wasn't that he'd kissed her back with just as much passion and fervor, his hands gripping her face just as tightly as hers had his. The problem wasn't even that she thought she heard him murmuring that he loved her, too, although it was hard to tell over the screaming of the engines as their small plan dove oceanward.

The problem was, they didn't die. Oh, everyone else on the plane died - the pilot, the co-pilot, the three other passengers, the two members of the cabin crew - but she and Sherlock didn't.

Not that Molly would be unhappy about surviving a plane crash under normal circumstances - and certainly her first reaction upon regaining consciousness was relief that she had, indeed, woken up alive and relatively uninjured. She was even pleased that Sherlock had survived, even if she had to set his broken arm for him and improvise a sling out of her skirt.

But what sort of cruel fate would make them the only survivors after she'd done something so foolish as to openly declare her love for him?

Those were her thoughts on the worst of the days that followed, when she allowed despair and self-pity to overwhelm her. When Sherlock was bitingly sarcastic bordering on cruel to her. She knew it was the pain of his arm, his rage at the situation itself and nothing to do with her personally, but she couldn't help wondering if he was deliberately making sure she harbored no illusions about that desperate kiss and her equally desperate declaration of love...and also ensuring that she never had the time or the inclination to ask him about the words she'd thought he'd spoken.

As the days turned into weeks and weeks into a month, she managed to put all of that behind her. In truth, she knew it had been easier to focus on her emotional turmoil rather than the grim facts that the two of them were the only survivors after their plane had been blown off-course by a storm, and that no one was likely to find them anytime soon, and that they'd had to bury - well, she'd had to since Sherlock's arm made it impossible for him to help - the seven who hadn't been so lucky, who'd been killed on impact.

She was sitting in front of those seven graves with their pathetic hand-made crosses, having laid new garlands of tropical blooms on each one just as she did every day since covering the last body with soil. Her hands were still a mass of calluses and open sores, and she was grateful for the tube of ointment she always carried in her handbag. The last thing she needed was for infection to set in.

Speaking of which...with a sigh she rose to her knees in preparation for standing and trudging back to the small camp she and Sherlock had made out of pieces of the plane combined with small saplings and an experimental matting of palm fronds. They'd dragged all the personal belongings, food, water, and anything else useful that they could to the edges of the jungle that infringed on the beach, found a source of fresh water not too far off, and done their best to explore their new (hopefully, please God, temporary) home...and spent the rest of the time waiting.

Waiting and bickering. They'd had a proper row earlier in the day; Sherlock had stomped off to the stream to refill their plastic bottles, and she'd gone to the gravesite after gathering armfuls of white flowers - Plumeria, she thought, although she was hazy about most tropical blooms except orchids and hibiscus - to try and meditate her way to a semblance of calm.

However, just as she'd brought her feet under her, she heard an unexpected sound and turned to see Sherlock standing awkwardly under the shade of a palm tree. In one hand he held two water bottles by their capped tops, and resting atop his broken arm was...a pile of flowers? "I, er, thought I might make a contribution to the memorial," he said as she just stared at him.

Finally she realized he was waiting for something, and nodded as she finished her aborted movements and stood up. "Um, yes, of course, please," she said, gesturing toward the seven low mounds. "Oh! Let me help!" she added as he moved toward her. She reached for the flowers, then changed her mind and grabbed for the water bottles, causing everything to drop to the ground. "Sorry!" she exclaimed in chagrin, once again falling to her knees in order to rescue the scattered - and now slightly squashed - blossoms.

"No, it's fine," he replied, also getting on his knees. As they both reached for the same water bottle, their hands touched, and Molly felt a blush forming on her cheeks that had nothing to do with either the heat of the day or the embarrassment she felt at her clumsiness. She started to pull away, only to feel Sherlock's fingers tightening on hers. "Molly," he said, his voice low and intense. "Please. Look at me."

She slowly raised her eyes to meet his, and was shocked to see a red flush spreading across his elegant cheekbones. "Oh, Sherlock! Are you feverish?" she demanded, reaching up and placing a hand on his forehead. "Oh God, I should have checked you out sooner, you should be resting, not running around..."

"I don't have a fever," he snapped, reaching up and pulling her hand down. But he didn't let it go, kept it trapped in his hold. He was so close that she could practically count the amber flecks in his eyes as he stared at her. "I'm not feverish, the arm is healing well, I am trying very hard to make amends for my poor behavior since we crashed. That's all."

"Oh," she whispered, then blushed even harder at the layers of misunderstanding she'd placed on his actions. "It's fine, we've both been on edge. Hard not to be. It's all...it's fine," she repeated somewhat desperately, wishing he'd let her hand go, wishing he wasn't so close that all she would have to do would be to lean forward just the smallest bit in order to kiss him.

That would never do. He'd be angry and upset all over again, and this was the first truly civil conversation they'd had since regaining consciousness in the wreckage of the plane and she absolutely didn't want to spoil it.

As she started to pull away, however, he scowled harder. "Not finished," he said in a growl. "I didn't mean 'that's all' as in, I was done explaining. I just meant the flowers." He glanced down briefly at the wilting blooms jumbled around them in a white heap. "That was to make amends. I also want to kiss you, if you'll just stay still long enough for me to do so."

"If this is about what happened on the plane, what I said..."

"What we both said," he corrected her. Confirming that impossible memory. Molly sucked in a deep breath at the revelation that she had actually heard what she thought she'd heard, but before she could say anything, Sherlock rushed on. "I meant it, Molly, and I know you did, so can we please stop fighting and just...admit it?"

"Admit what?" she asked quietly. Needing to hear the words, spoken aloud by him, in the proper order, with no threat of immediate death looming over them.

"Fine," he said impatiently. "I love you. You love me. Now will you for God's sake kiss me?"

"Yeah, kiss him, Molly, so we can get the two of you back to London!"

They turned at the sound of that unexpected and oh-so-welcome voice to see John Watson and Greg Lestrade beaming at them. It was John who had spoken, and Molly would have rushed over to hug their rescuers except for one thing: Sherlock was still holding tightly to her wrist.

When she gave him an inquiring look, he pulled her closer. "You heard the man, Molly. Kiss me." Then he leaned down and she tilted her head and their lips met while John and Greg clapped and whistled their approval.


	10. Stranded Redux

_kendrapendragon said (about "Stranded"): I so love this!_

… _but I will forever be mad that you didn't go smutty! ;)_

 _And since I don't want her to be forever mad, I wrote this alternate ending. It's rated very much M and is, um, slightly domme!Molly._

* * *

They made it back to their makeshift home without tearing one another's clothes off…but only barely, and only because Molly was being extra careful of Sherlock's broken arm. "It's fine, it's healing, for God's sake, Molly, stop babying me!"

She ignored his grouchy words, knowing that they stemmed from the same sexual frustration and eagerness to end said frustration that she was currently feeling. "Sit down," she ordered, indicating the pile of blankets spread over a mat of woven palm-fronds that made up their bed. His eyes widened a bit at the tone of command in her voice, but she was too busy fussing over his arm to notice.

She gave an approving nod when he did as she'd ordered; with deft, gentle hands she helped him remove his clothing - trousers and pants and a short-sleeved uniform shirt found in the captain's carry-on bag and loose enough to go over the makeshift splint she'd cobbled together - and helped him lie back, smoothing a hand over his messy curls as she did so. "Good boy," she murmured, meaning to tease a bit, but feeling a jolt of pleased surprise down her spine at the way his half-erect cock twitched and swelled. His cheeks flushed an even darker red and she decided to experiment a bit. "Put your free arm behind your head," she ordered, putting a bit of snap into her voice.

He obeyed with every sign of eagerness, his eyes wide and his mouth partially opened. "Now watch," she said, then pulled her own clothes off with deliberate slowness: her colorful blouse with the sleeves hacked off above the elbows, her khaki trousers, her sandals, and finally her bra and knickers. Sherlock tracked her every move, unmoving, unspeaking, becoming obviously more and more aroused with each revelation of her flesh. She knew she must look a sight, with her blistered hands and farmer's tan and blotches of sunburn; her hair was a messy braid and the freckles on her nose must be positively running amok - but he looked at her as if she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen, and she quietly reveled in the sensation.

He, naturally enough, was as pale and elegant as an Elgin marble; even the broken arm and the abdominal scar from his bullet wound could do nothing to mar his perfection in her eyes, and she was quick to let him know it.

"You really are a sweet boy when you want to be," she sighed as she leaned down to nip at his throat. She lowered her body and slid her pussy along his cock, coating it with her juices and loving the soft moan he let out at the sensation. "Why can't you be like this all the time?"

"Because then you wouldn't have any reason to punish me," he murmured, his breath hot against her ear. "And there are times, Molly Hooper, when I very much require punishment for my actions."

"Mmm, yes, but not today," she replied, reaching between them and giving his cock a squeeze. He moaned even louder that time and gave his hips a little thrust. "Today you deserve a reward. I hope you're not disappointed?"

"Not in the least," he rushed to assure her as she finally turned her head to kiss him. His mouth was warm and tasted slightly of banana, and their tongues danced a sultry tango as she continued to work him with her hand. When she felt the precum beading at the tip, she smeared it across her fingers, then sat up and held his gaze she deliberately took those same fingers and slipped them along her folds. She was already more than ready for him, but wanted to see his reaction.

She wasn't disappointed; his eyes widened and his tongue darted out to touch his lips as she then allowed her fingers to glide wantonly up her body until she was teasing her breasts. He made another one of those delicious hip movements and gave a strangled groan, the arm behind his head twitching as if he longed to reach out for her. She took pity on him, leaning back down so that her breasts were just above his face. He lifted his head and eagerly began to suckle at each nipple in turn, and while he was thus occupied Molly lifted her hips and then lowered herself onto his straining cock.

They both let out deeply satisfied sighs at the sensation, Sherlock's tongue vibrating against her nipple in an immensely pleasurable way. She began to rock against him, gasping and cooing as his mouth continued to do some very wicked things to her breasts. "You can touch me now," she said, lowering herself a bit in order to get a better angle against her clit. "Anywhere you like, sweet boy."

"Oh thank God," he gasped, moving his mouth up to take hers in a sloppy kiss as he reached between their bodies and slid his thumb over her clit. "You have no idea how long I've wanted to do this to you, Molly Hooper. No idea at all."

"Mm, probably not as long as I've wanted to do this to you," she bit out, feeling her breath start to catch as she neared her completion. "No offense, Sherlock, but right now I think I'd just like you to fuck me and save the talking for after."

"Yes ma'am," he replied smartly, and just like that she fell completely apart, howling her pleasure to the four winds. Sherlock's orgasm wasn't far behind hers, and his strangled cry was nearly as loud as hers.

Or, as a very embarrassed Greg Lestrade and John Watson would later tell them, so it sounded from their vantage point down the beach. "Bloody awful timing on our part," John would grumble, his face turning pink at the memory. "Next time you two get stranded on a desert island, Mycroft can sodding well come and fetch you back himself!"


	11. Brother Knows Best

_Sammykatz said: I wish you would write a story where Mycroft ships sherlolly, and is very protective of his "sister". He's very tired of John's jealousy of Sherlock going to Molly to help with the fall. Just imagine what he would do if someone like Janine or Irene threatened her. I'm in the mind they are sisters and are the real Moriarty._

 _A/N: Tweaked this one a bit and also made it a Victorian AU because why not? Rated K, and I wish everyone to enjoy this humble offering, even if Molly and Sherlock don't actually make an appearance in the story._

* * *

"Watson, can I prevail upon you to do something about your husband?"

Mary Watson, nee Morstan, turned to face her sometimes-employer with an arched eyebrow and an inquiring expression. When that failed to wring a further explanation, she spoke. "What offense has he given, Holmes? Is it something grievous enough to require my skills with a pistol or will a light chastising do?"

Mycroft Holmes waved a languid hand and contemplated with distaste the simple meal set before him. He had lost nearly two stone on the strict diet which his personal physician had placed him, and it was clear that his current distemper was as much due to his desire for something more substantial to eat as it was to whatever imaginary hurt John had caused him.

"He is going to find himself on the receiving end of my dear brother's temper if he continues to treat Miss - pardon me, Doctor - Hooper as poorly as he has been ever since his discovery of the part she played in saving Sherlock's life. You know, that contretemps in Switzerland."

Oh, she most certainly knew of that 'contretemps'; it was no longer a secret amongst the younger Holmes' circle of intimates, of which she assuredly counted herself one! And loath though she was to admit it, Holmes the elder had a point: John, as much as she loved him, was far too prone to carry a grudge. "So you feel my husband has been treating Doctor Hooper poorly?" In all honesty Mary could understand Mycroft's concern, since she shared it to a point. He had been very polite and formal in all his undertakings with Doctor Hooper ever since Sherlock's return, but Mary had been too distracted by her attempts to bring the two men to a reconciliation to pay more than fleeting attention to John's behaviour toward the other woman.

Mycroft, it would seem, had noticed what she had not. "His jealousy of the way my brother entrusted her with a secret he felt unable to share with your husband is quite apparent, Watson. If he is not careful, he will find that his recent reconciliation with my brother is not so permanent a state as he might currently believe."

Mary raised an expressive blonde eyebrow before raising her own fork to her lips and taking a delicate, ladylike nibble of the salad greens set before her. "I see. And might I enquire as to when my husband's treatment of Doctor Hooper became of such interest to you?"

"It's not," he replied swiftly. Too swiftly, and he knew it, judging by the return of his scowl.

"Of course not," Mary replied, just blandly enough to let him knew that she was fully aware of the falsity of his statement. She held his gaze for a moment before deliberately returning her attention to her meal. "The chef has outdone himself," she said politely as she raised her fork and took a dainty bite of the greens drizzled with oil and vinegar.

"The chef takes his duties far too zealously," Mycroft grumbled, but followed her lead.

As soon as they'd finished, Mary rose to her feet, gesturing for Mycroft to remain seated when he made as if to push his considerable bulk from his chair. "Never fear, Mr. Holmes," she said with a small smile. "I shall see to it that my husband remembers his manners when it comes to Doctor Hooper in future." As she passed Mycroft's chair, she leaned down and murmured, "After all, I wouldn't want you to feel any discomfiture regarding the woman we both know is destined to become your future sister-in-law. Especially seeing as you cherish her nearly as much as your brother does."

Mycroft said nothing, merely glowered after her until she'd exited the room. Only when she's closed the door behind her did he allow a pleased smile to cross his lips. "Well played, Watson, well played," he said with a quiet chuckle.

Bringing her into his employ had been one of the most intelligent decisions he'd ever made, as she'd once again proven by her ability to pick up on the most subtle of hints - and to form the correct conclusions thereafter. Much like Sherlock, he mused as he poured himself a second glass of claret, not waiting for the porter to re-enter the room as he assuredly would now that Mrs. Watson had left the premises.

Ah, Sherlock. The only thing standing between his younger brother and matrimonial bliss was his own stubborn insistence that sentiment was a defect. And although Mycroft knew it was his own influence that had brought his brother to that conclusion, he was also gracious enough to admit when he'd been wrong. And just as soon as Sherlock also realized that truth, they would all find themselves that much happier.

Yes, Molly Hooper was destined to become his brother's wife - and Mary Watson was the instrument to bring it all about.

All in all, Mycroft thought complacently as he finally heard the porter's discreet knock on the door, it had been a very productive day indeed.


	12. Talk Dirty To Me

_MorbidbyDefault said: Would love to add to the prompts for this set…I wish you would write a fic where Sherlock is away on a very long case, but he misses Molly, so he decides they should try to sext...but the addict in him needs more, of course. ;)_

 _A/N: If you don't think this story is Rated M, you don't know me very well! :D_

* * *

 _This case just will. Not. END!_

 _Ugh the suspect thinks he's too clever to be caught…AND RIGHT NOW I AGREE WITH HIM._

 _I just want to let Lestrade and the other idiots at the Met deal with this, why did I agree to come to fucking Cornwall?_

 _I think I'll just tell them John needs to get home to his wife and baby, then of COURSE I'll have to go home too._

 _You'd like that wouldn't you Molly? To have me home again? Because even though I can live without sex for long periods of time I know that you can't._

 _Oh wait that sounded like an insult. Sorry. It wasn't meant to be._

Molly Hooper-Holmes grinned fondly at the barrage of text messages her consulting detective husband had sent her within the span of a few minutes. He and John had been in Cornwall for over a week now, tracking down the drug dealer who'd been giving London so much grief over the past six months, and she could practically hear the frustration in every word.

 _It's all right,_ she texted back. _I understand. You're frustrated with the case._

 _I'm also sexually frustrated. Hard to wank with John in the same room. For some reason that bothers him._

Molly giggled at the thought of her husband thinking such a thing might even be remotely acceptable to his best friend. _So why not just get separate rooms? It's not like you to share when on a case, especially one with an expense account,_ she texted in response.

 _They didn't have any available at the beginning of the case and we thought we'd be done by now. Hold on._

Humming to herself, Molly laid down the phone and started getting ready for bed. She was mostly through her normal routine before her mobile buzzed again to signal an incoming text. As expected, it was from Sherlock. _Right. Got my own room now. What are you wearing?_

 _That Rugby shirt you hate and a pair of knickers,_ she texted back, settling down on the bed with a grin. _You?_

 _Nothing. Tell me when you're naked._

That certainly raised an eyebrow. _Sherlock, are you sexting me?_

 _Obviously. Are you naked yet?_

 _Not yet._

 _Hurry up. I don't want to start touching myself until I know you're naked and doing the same._

Molly had long thought herself past the blushing virgin stage, but Sherlock's text brought a bright red stain to her cheeks even as she felt a jolt of pure lust through her lady parts. A few hurried seconds later she was lying on their bed, duvet pushed aside and her clothes dropped haphazardly on the floor. _Okay, naked. Now what?_ she texted.

 _Haven't you ever done this before? I thought you'd be the one to coach me through it. Aside from the obvious touching ourselves part of course._

Molly bit her lip, hesitating before responding. She had done a bit of sexting with Tom, but nothing more than some light-hearted flirting. She'd been too embarrassed to do any of the things her friend Meena had suggested at the time, but now... holding the camera up, she turned it to 'beauty shot' mode and took a picture of herself, head and breasts and just a hint of her stomach. Before hitting 'send', she typed, _Naked enough for you? ;-)_

It took more than a minute for him to respond, and when he did, she could practically see him in 'reboot' mode as she read it. _Yes. Very inspiring. My turn I suppose._

She bit her lip in anticipation, waiting for the next quiet 'ping' of her mobile. As hoped, there was a photo attached to the text. It was essentially the same shot she'd taken of herself, Sherlock's head and long, pale torso with glimpses of his arms on either side of the frame, but he'd angled it so that just a hint of pubic hair was showing at the bottom.

 _Mmmm,_ she texted. _Me likey._ Then she took another snap, this one of her fingers stroking her pussy, even as her cheeks flushed with heat. She'd never expected to do anything like this with Sherlock, and it was beyond exciting that he'd been the one to initiate it. She hesitated before sending the picture, biting her lip nervously before finally committing.

She took her hand away, feeling oddly self-conscious about continuing to stroke herself while she waited for Sherlock to return her text. She tried telling herself she was being ridiculous; after all, it wasn't as if she'd never touched herself while thinking about him. But it was no good; every time her hand strayed downward, she stopped just shy of her goal. Her face was still red, but it was more from embarrassment than arousal and she wondered if she should just tell him not to bother.

As if in response to her thoughts, her mobile pinged, and she opened the new text. There was no picture attached, just a single sentence: _Stop feeling self-conscious and just relax._

Git. She stuck her tongue out at the phone. How dare he know her so well?

Fine. She settled more comfortably onto her back, determined to send him a picture he'd never forget, when her mobile pinged again. She opened the picture attached to the text, and suddenly all her inhibitions vanished like the morning fog on a sunny day.

He'd sent her a picture of himself. Specifically, of his cock, plump and red and hard, with his right hand wrapped around it, his thumb just grazing the tip. In the ten months they'd been together, she'd never actually seen him touching himself like that. _Wishing that was my hand?_ she typed, reaching between her legs with renewed eagerness after pressing 'send'.

 _You know it,_ he responded almost a full minute later. _Self-gradifacation isnt realy my think._

It took Molly a second to puzzle through that mess, and she grinned as she realized he must be typing with his left hand. _Try switching to voice-to-text,_ she sent. _I'll do the same._

Just as she was about to suit words to actions, her mobile rang with Sherlock's ringtone, Elvis Costello's _Watching the Detectives_. "Hello?" she said. "What's wrong? Is it the case? Do you need to go?"

" _Everything's fine_ ," she heard her husband say, his voice a deep rumble she was almost tempted to call a purr. " _Put your phone on speaker and lay it on the nightstand, Molly. I want to hear you. If I had a laptop with me, I'd skype you so we could watch each other, but needs must._ "

She scrambled to do as he'd asked, propping it against the base of the lamp with its frilly yellow shade and ceramic kittens. Hers, of course, a childhood memento that made what they were about to do seem even filthier. God, she was getting incredibly wet, and they'd barely even started! She pressed the speaker on her mobile and settled back with her head on the pillow. "Can you hear me?" she asked, a bit breathlessly.

" _Clear as a bell_ ," Sherlock replied. " _Now lie back and tell me what you're doing._ "

"Wishing you were here with me," she replied promptly, one hand drifting down to brush against her nipples. Just a flick of the fingertips, a slight scrape of the nails and they went from slightly hard to rigid, especially since she was imagining it was Sherlock's teeth and lips. "Touching myself," she added when she heard him give an impatient huff.

" _Touching yourself where?_ "

"My breasts," she replied, both hands now working her nipples, twisting and pulling on them as she pictured his mouth sucking hard. He always gave them his full and undivided attention whether they were just a pit-stop on the way further south or whether they were the final destination for his mouth. 'Compensating for past misdeeds', he called it, and Molly had absolutely no objections.

" _Imagining my mouth on them? Wishing you could feel the scrape of my teeth, the flat of my tongue?_ "

"More than you can possibly imagine," she assured him, rubbing her thighs together as his voice combined with her efforts to bring a sweet ache between her legs.

" _I'm stroking my cock, wishing rather desperately that it was your mouth on it,_ " he said. His voice was rough and a bit unsteady, which only turned her on more. " _Especially since I didn't think to bring any lube with me,_ " he added in a grumble.

"Not sexy," Molly advised him, then added in a sultry voice, "but don't worry, I've got enough lubrication right now for the two of us. Mmmm." She slid her fingers through her slick folds and closed her eyes, imagining it was Sherlock touching her.

His only response, at least at first, was an inaudible mumble and the sound of panting. " _Molly, do you have any idea how much I want to taste you right now? Make you come with my mouth, play you like my fucking violin?_ "

"Probably about as much as I want to be riding your cock right now," Molly gasped out, her fingers moving with more urgency, pressing against her clit and the lips of her pussy. "I love looking down at you, seeing your hair in tangles from me pulling it, sweat beading on your forehead, God, your whole body just glistening with it. I love how you look when you come, did you know that? Those gorgeous lips parted as you gasp for breath, the way your cock feels, pulsing inside me, your fingers on my nipples as you tug me down for a kiss…ungghghghhhh!"

Her orgasm took her by surprise, overwhelming her, a cresting tide that washed away every word, every thought as she floated blissfully in its wake. She came back to reality as she heard Sherlock give a strangled shout. " _Fuck, Molly, oh God, ahhhhhhhh!_ "

Her orgasm had apparently triggered his; so much for his complaints about a lack of lubrication! She giggled and wiped her fingers off with a tissue, then reached for her phone, turning languidly on her side and cradling the mobile to her ear. "Was that as good for you as it was for me?" she cooed.

" _You will be seeing me in person very soon, Molly,_ " he advised after a long moment of heavy breathing. " _If I have to make up evidence, I swear I will be home before the end of the week._ "

She giggled. "Now, Sherlock, flattering as that is, don't turn criminal because of me." She stretched and wiggled her feet under the duvet, kicking it up high enough for her groping hand to snag it and pull it over her cooling body. She yawned, pulling the phone away as she did so. "Love you," she said softly.

" _Love you, too,_ " he replied. " _Also, I may have to reassess my ability to go without sex for long periods of time. It seems being married to you has spoiled me for abstinence._ "

"Mm, now _that_ I'm willing to take credit for," Molly said with a giggle, followed immediately by another yawn. "Just finish the case, Sherlock. I'll be here waiting for you when you get home. Promise."

" _Will you, er, be available for another session tomorrow night?_ "

Molly chuckled ruefully. "Seems like I've created a monster!"

His response made her laugh out loud. " _Well, you know I'm a creature of habit...and this is one habit I think you won't find any reason to slap me for!_ "

"Mmm, nope," Molly said, popping the p the way he loved to do when being obnoxious. "Unless you want me to...and that's a conversation for when you're here in person."

There was no response; for a moment, Molly thought he must have hung up. "Sherlock?"

" _Umm, yes, here, just...thinking. About things. Do you think you could run to Harrods and pick up a few things? I'll text them to you._ "

Molly's eyebrow raised as she saw the list that followed, and her cheeks heated up to furnace temperature. "Sherlock, I'm not sure I want to have any of that used on me…" she started, only to be interrupted by her husband.

" _No need to worry Molly._ " She could practically _hear_ the smile in his voice as he added in a sensuous purr, " _They're for you, yes, but for you to use on me. Sweet dreams!_ " Then he did hang up, before she could do more than start to sputter out a response.

She laid her mobile on the nightstand, cheeks still warm and feeling a bit bemused...but more than a bit pleased at her the turn her husband's thoughts had taken.

Sexting was fun, she had to admit that, but what he had in mind for the future?

Now THAT she could sink her teeth into!

* * *

 _A/N: Thank you to everyone who sends me a PM or leaves a review or follows or just plain reads my stuff. I appreciate it from the bottom of my heart!_


End file.
